


Carry Our Bodies Safe To Shore

by MyresLight



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Emotionally Repressed, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Panic Attacks, Period-Typical Homophobia, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-World War II, Sexual Content, Survivor Guilt, au where I try to give the boys a happy-ish ending, oh look more therapeutic screams to the void
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-10-11
Updated: 2017-10-11
Packaged: 2018-12-31 16:57:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,788
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12136962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MyresLight/pseuds/MyresLight
Summary: After the war, Farrier and Collins struggle with coming home and with each other.Title is from "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men





	Carry Our Bodies Safe To Shore

**Author's Note:**

> This exists mostly because I wanted to expand more on the headcannons I have for these two and I made myself sad with the last one so it's time for some unRESOLVED ISSUES. 
> 
> There are probably some discrepancies in dates and such both historically and with my previous fic, the latter of which I am in the process of editing so full disclosure.
> 
> Chapter title is from "Spanish Sahara" by Foals

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The war ends, and Collins meets a familiar face.

Collins didn’t believe it first, when they told him the war was over.

The day was damp but mild when he arrived at the hangar in Kirkham. The rain had halted with steam starting to rise from the tarmac as sun broke through the clouds, casting down golden tones through the light grey canvas. British summer time had been heralded in.

He had just left his car when he was pounced on by one of the younger men at the base, rhyming off about Germany’s surrender and the fall of Berlin, courtesy of the Red Army. The reality of the day became clear when he entered the command building where the scenery had changed from one of mission debriefings and late nights to complete anarchy as pilots celebrated the end of six exhausting and horrific years.

Unfortunately, Collins couldn’t quite share the sentiment. It was almost lacklustre, and he felt alien in the crowd of young men cheering around him, with wide smiles and eyes bright as they started planning futures and families.

Collins was just tired.

His discussion with the Wing Commander regarding the immediate future was brief,

“Well Lieutenant,” the man had replied, resting a hand on Collin’s shoulder, “now it’s time to head home.” The older man sauntered off to re-join the hub of music and cheers that continued behind him, never changing in volume.

And with that, he was left standing alone. There was paper work to catch up with at Whitehall, but it was clear that it wouldn’t be sorted that day. With little ceremony, he turned and started to walk back to his vehicle, leaving the songs of younger, more whole men behind him.

Removing his overcoat and opening his car door, he threw it onto the passenger seat and climbed in himself. He had sat down onto the leather seat when a piece of paper caught his eye. It had obviously fallen out of his jacket and was lying open, just enough to allow Collins to identify the image of himself and Farrier, in front of the latter’s Spitfire during the opening days of the war.

Looking at the grinning face on the photograph he almost didn’t recognise himself, the easy grin and shoulders free of guilt. A different man from a different time.

The same of course could be said of the second man in the picture. Collins hadn’t seen William Farrier in the flesh in five years, but his face was as familiar to him as the day that the left for Dunkirk, the paper being worn and soft with use after continual folding and unfolding, kept hidden from the world, a secret between two people that could never be found out.

Picking up the image with a reverence that he hadn’t possessed in years, he held the picture gently between his hands, running his fingers slowly over the monotone depiction of a man he once knew so well.

For the first time in five years, Collins knew where to go.

* * *

Upon reaching Whitehall, it was clear that Collins had vastly overestimated the ease with which he would be able to find anything, never mind one specific pilot returned home from God knows where.

The main building itself was a sight of admin gone very wrong. Nothing was in its proper place, pages were dropped and forgotten, there was stations with no one to man them. If he had little patience before, RAF Whitehall effectively eliminated what was left of his reserves.

After four failed inquiries and a confrontational encounter with a couple of heavily drunk men, it was all too apparent to the Scotsman that his search would continue no further that day.

He hadn’t heard any word from Farrier since that fateful day over the channel, but a part of Collins refused to think him dead. A small part of him thought that this was because if he allowed himself to believe that Farrier was never coming back home, that he was _gone_ , then the odds of Collins surviving himself would start to slim at an alarming rate.

He didn’t dwell too much on what that meant.

Despite failed inquiries with the main desk, Collins got further with the general administration for RAF Kirkham. But not much.

The administration office for his home base wasn’t much to write home about. The room itself was small to start with, made smaller still by the towers of files piled on top of each other, reaching from the floor and brushing with the ceiling in certain piles. But despite that, there seemed to be a certain order to the chaos, evident by the glares the secretary would shoot in Collins’ direction when he started leafing through pages himself.

“If I could have an idea of what to look for dear, it may speed this up.” The woman snapped out, her words clipped at the ends, impatience with him growing.

“I’m sorry, it’s jus’, I’m looking for,”

Looking for what? His friend? Partner? They were hardly lovers, all that there was between them in that respect was two couplings in a disused warehouse, the smell of fuel blanketing them up and away from the world.

“Looking for someone from by the name of William Farrier, I need to find out where he lived before the war.”

With a direction of where to look, the woman disappeared behind one of the paper columns, before reappearing a short time later with a thin file which was thrust unceremoniously into Collins’ hands.

“This is everything we have on your pilot,” she stated, giving a tight-lipped smile not reaching her eyes. “We’ll be closing the office soon so I hope there’s nothing else you need.”

Taking his cue, Collins fled the office.

* * *

 

Doncaster was his destination, and it didn’t take him long to travel there. His problem was the lack of plan he had when he arrived.

In the rush of packing his meagre possession from Kirkham, and the constant travelling back and forth across the country, Collins hadn’t taken time to consider that the address on Farrier’s file was most likely long dated. He knew that the Englishman had changed addresses at least twice during his military career, and the house he was currently walking to didn’t necessarily contain the same inhabitant as twenty years ago.

As Collins trudged through the dense city smog, he dejectedly realised how foolish he had been about the whole venture. Without any indication or clue as to whether or not Farrier was alive, he had spent an un-Godly sum of his savings ferrying himself to obscure locations, going on nothing except gut instinct and an impersonal file containing the base details of the man he held closest to his heart.

Standing alone on the dimly sit street in the English north, Collins realised continuing as he was, he wouldn’t find Farrier.

He needn’t have worried. In the end, Farrier found him.

He shouldn’t have been surprised in retrospect, the man always did have a sixth sense that seemed to draw him towards the younger pilot. But as Collins rounded the street corner, course set for the nearest affordable inn, he happened upon the person he had long been thinking about, searching for, not ten feet away from him.

“Will.”

His voice was soft, part of him not quite believing that William Farrier was there, standing in front of him in the flesh, looking almost exactly how he had that last day before Dunkirk.

“ _Will!_ ”

The second time the name was dragged from his throat roughly, leaving a burn in its tracks. His voice spoke at a greater volume, emotion chocking him up in a way he hadn’t felt in years as he saw recognition dawn on the other man’s face as the older man’s eyes widened.

“ _Ewan._ ”

He watched as Farrier’s mouth work around the syllables of his first name, and suddenly his chest was tight with an overload of emotion he had repressed for too long.

Collins’ feet moved automatically, bringing his closer to the Englishman slowly, but then faster as he threw closed the distance between the two of them before, when he was but a few scant inches away, he threw himself at Farrier, arms wrapping around the man’s frame as he inhaled the scent of shoe polish and leather that he had forgotten about.

Farrier’s arms were slow coming up but once there, they held him close as if he were trapped in a vice, and he could hear his name being whispered over and over into his ear. If he closed his eyes then it was as if he were back to 1939, where the years were stretched out endlessly in front of him and he walked about in his blues as if he could take on the world himself.

But these illusions were soon broken as he understood what it truly meant to take the life of the enemy, to lose friends over foreign land, to be the only one left.

It was Farrier pulling away from the embrace that finally broke him out of his mind. The weight of the older man against him had tears pricking at his eye corners, but he willed them back as he drew away from the one human he was closest to.

Looking at each other for the first time, an awkwardness settled between them as they realised they were in public and weren’t exactly being conspicuous.

“It’s ah-”

“You-”

They both stopped and looked at each other. Laughing slightly, Farrier put his hand out and grasped on to Collins’ own and it was entirely too warm for Collins to process.

“Come on, there’s a decent pub not too far from here.”

_“And there he is,”_ Collins thought, face breaking out into a grin for the first time in months, _“William Farrier, the conversationalist.”_

“Aye, sounds great.”

* * *

 

They sat in front of each other for a long time. Still not quite believing that Farrier was _home_ and _in front of him_ , Collins would look up at him before quickly turning back to his drink when his eyes met the sea green eyes of the Englishman so he wouldn’t catch the blush rising on his cheeks.

The joy of their earlier meeting had been drowned out by the tense silence, brought on by years of silence on both ends of communication and the eyes of the other men in the pub loitering around their own tables.

There was a heavy weight that hung over both men at the table; five years and countless things left unsaid, like an open wound left to fester, the only question was if there was anything left that could be salvaged.

The background was filled with the indistinct murmur of other, inconsequential conversations, as well as the occasional creak of wood as someone moved in their seats or returned from the bar with more alcohol to numb their mind.

“So,” Collins started, because _Christ_ , did he have questions for Farrier, “what in God’s name are you doing in Doncaster.”

A small smile flashed across Farrier’s mouth, and if Collins felt his stomach go lighter after seeing it, it was really no one’s business.

“Family visits mainly,” There was a certain nostalgic look to Farrier’s face as the older man turned his head to face the window their table was positioned besides, “I never told you, did I? Born here, schooled here, the house’s been in the family for a good few years now.” He turned back towards Collins, “I’ve still got my sister and one of my brothers here, for all that’s worth, the folks too.” His lips turned down at the edges, “Although Dad’s not really been himself since hearing about John I hear,” he brought his glass up to his face, “Maggie recons he’ll be gone before the years end.”

“Jesus Farrier,”

Farrier shrugged, “Don’t worry about it, I can’t say we were ever close. More than a couple of heated words’ve been exchanged over the years.” He set his glass down harshly, a crease forming between his eyes “And Robert can go fuck himself for all I care. With any luck, he’ll be jumping ship over to Ireland and I get to forget all about him until a niece or nephew calls me over for the funeral.” He raised his glass again in a mock toast, “To family eh?”

The blonde hair man raised his glass, struggling to hide his trembling hand from the Englishman across from him. Another gift from the war, the trebling came in bouts, but especially when he was nervous and he _hated_ it, hated not having control over his own body, a silent witness to his slowly breaking psyche.

If Farrier noticed the shaking, he was kind enough not to draw attention to it, back once again to reading Collins like an open book. Silence resumed at the table as someone stood at the other end of the room and broke into a drunken chorus of ‘Rule Britannia’.

“And what about yourself,” Farrier inquired, eyes filled with warmth as they fixed on Collins’ face, “will you be back up in the air once everything settles?”

He didn’t say but Collins had contemplated it, but he was unsure. He had been in flight training before the outbreak of the war and voluntarily enlisted, but now war was over and flying had become chore-like with its repetition and the long hours he put in. Not to mention the blood he now carried on his hands, the dreams of fire and fuel that haunted his days both in wake and sleep.

But at the same time, he had a genuine love of flying, being in the air. Six years of his life, amounting to two promotions up the ranks, a loss of feeling in his left arm, and sleepless nights in a cold bed.

It was only bitterness that he felt now, a complete loss of purpose.

“It’s a bit too soon to say, I don’t want to make a commitment one way or the other.”

“Hm, I suppose that’s fair enough.”

His answer was non-comital and they both knew it. Truth be told, Collins couldn’t say why he didn’t disclose his thoughts with Farrier. It had been so easy talking to him before, dusk or dawn Collins would just sit down beside whatever surface Farrier was currently perched on and rhymed off his various feelings on commanding officers, fellow pilots, or even the morning headlines printed across the newspapers.

Sometime during the last few years, he had lost that ability to connect with people, he knew that the time most likely coincided with the incident that left him broken with ghosts as his only remaining friends.

The noise in the pub had started to lull. They both looked up at the same time, green eyes meeting blue.

“I missed you.”

And Collins could’ve cried, because he heard the emotion that was hidden behind the simple words, and it felt strange to find such comfort behind such simple words. But he would grasp at the slightest bit of affection that Farrier gave him, he always had.

Farrier stood up, chair screeching against the wooden floor boards, looking down at Collins, a smile almost reaching his eyes.

“Come on, I know a place. Discreet, no questions asked.”

It took only a moment before Collins stood up to join the dark-haired man,

“Right behind you.”

* * *

 

The room they eventually sourced was worth exactly what they paid for; cold and moisture both leaked through the cheaply built window, the walls were thin with plaster peeling off in numerous places, and the bed was little more than a glorified mattress with thread-bear sheets.

But the setting was of little concern to Collins after Farrier kicked the door closed behind them.

The only light in the room came from the streetlamps outside, the artificial brightness filtering in through the rough-sewn curtains. It was meagre, but enough that Collins could see the outline of the older man, still standing by the door.

Confidence left both men for a moment, the tension of the room palpable. Collins swallowed past the lump in his throat as time, for a moment, stood still.

And then Farrier crossed the room in three strides, pushing them both up against the far wall of the room. And Collins mind goes blank because the other man’s lips are on his, teeth biting down on his lower lip, and breath mingling until it’s as if they share the same lungs. It’s damp, and it’s desperate, and it’s what Collins had been waiting for without even knowing it- warm hands on him, strong and steady.

They pushed each other’s coats off, and he felt one of Farrier’s hands come around the back of his neck as the other grasped onto the longer parts of his hair and _pulled_. He moves his own hands up to cradle Farrier’s jaw, feeling week-old stubble there, rough under his fingers.

He broke the kiss to gasp for air, moaning when the other man’s mouth started to trail down his neck, pausing to bite and the junction between his neck and shoulder. He knew for certain that he’d have a bruise there come morning.

Farrier moved with a practiced knowledge, his left hand leaving its position at Collin’s neck to move to his torso, where he began unbuttoning the non-discrepant shirt that had been thrown on without thought that morning.

Pushing off from the wall, the two pilots stumbled- arms supporting each other- across to the narrow bed, where Collins felt the springs digging into his back through the thin cotton as he fell to the surface below. He was distracted from that detail when Farrier settled his weight on top of him, raising himself up slightly on his forearms before leaning back down to resume the assault on Collins’ neck.

Seeking to gain an upper hand, Collins positioned his upper leg at Farrier’s crotch, grinding it back and forth as he felt the dark-haired man’s cock hard and warm rise against him, causing Farrier to groan into his ear.

“Ewan…”

There was a strange, bittersweet hurt that the Scotsman felt when he heard his given name said by Farrier after everything. It was as if after five years he _was_ Ewan again, not Collins the Flight Lieutenant or Collins the quiet flight partner; but Ewan, the man who visited his mother every time he was able, who couldn’t rhyme off as many foreign words or country capitals as the rest of the men, but always had a new card trick ready to impress them with.

The older man started moving down Collins’ torso, warm kisses making a path towards his naval where his cock was now uncomfortably hard in his trousers. And Farrier’s grinning up at him, eyes crinkling and _God_ Collins’ missed this, missed _him_.

He feels the older man’s hand fall between his hips, grasping at him and _fuck_ it’s been far too long. He thrusts up into the other man’s hand, nerve endings alight, as Farrier works him far too slowly. Farrier’s mouth settles against the pulse at his neck, mouth damp and hot, and all around him it’s just an all-encompassing warmth.

But then it’s too much, and Collins is brought back to another heat, a different, terrible heat. And that’s when he starts screaming.

All he sees are the flames, and Farrier is gone- he’s no longer in the room, but back at the base where the room falls apart around him in a scalding fire and he’s _trapped_ , and it’s getting difficult to breathe as smoke fills his lungs, burning away the moisture forming at his eyes and he feels death slip into the building. He’s become stuck, unable to run away from that haunting inevitability.

Distantly he feels hands on his own, trying to anchor him back to the present.

“Ewan. _Ewan!_ ”

Reality slams back into him as air rushes back into his lungs, not remembering when he had started holding his breath. Breaking into a coughing fit, spots appear before his eyes as the image of Farrier blurred above him.

He sat up with a jolt, back straight as he waited for the room to stop spinning, nails cutting semi-circular patterns into the palms of his hands.

He stares up at Farrier and doesn’t know him, the look he gives Collins is foreign but concern is still alight on his face.

The earlier frenzied passion had disappeared from the room. Collins manoeuvred himself upright so they sat side-by-side on the bed, and all the words Collins wants to say are stuck in his throat. He then felt very cold, but oddly when he looked up, the lone window was still closed.

He realised that he had pierced the skin on his hands through grasping them so tightly. The sight of his scarlet blood swelling up does little to help with the palpable tension in the room, or any pathetic excuses that he was trying to blindly draw up.

Farrier looked as if he wanted to say something, but couldn’t find words suitable enough to convey what he was surely thinking. There was confusion there, but also an undercurrent of solidarity. Subtle, but present.

But the look vanishes and pity takes its place, and that is something Collins will not bear. Not from his mother, not from the rest of his squadron, and certainly not from Farrier. Not when _Farrier_ was the one that was left stranded in Nazi-occupied ground. And that guilt is a constant echo that screams from the same flames that haunt him.

_You left him behind_.

Avoiding any and all eye contact, Collins mumbles a weak “sorry” before grabbing his shirt and fleeing from the room.

When he leaves, Farrier doesn’t follow.

* * *

 

Afterwards, Collins sits outside for a long time, going through an entire pack of cigarettes he found in his coat pocket. The smoke sat heavy around him.

Embarrassment and shame settled low in his belly, causing nausea to rise and for a moment Collins thinks that he will be sick there on the street side, the last scraps of his dignity washed away with the next rain. The moment passes and for the first time that day, he regrets ever entertaining the notion of finding Farrier, all he had to offer him was a lifetimes worth of trauma and a broken mind.

He leans his head against the brick wall as he looks up at the clouds rolling through the sky, illuminated by the moon’s reflecting light. They move steadily towards different horizons, in constant motion, and the thought makes him sad, although he didn’t quite know why.

He closes his eyes, feeling the autumn winds blow in, and wishes for oblivion.

**Author's Note:**

> sorry @ Christopher Nolan
> 
> Tumblr: nocturnalartemis


End file.
